The moat is none so distant, and the immersion may profit you.

For I'll swear you've not been washed since they baptized you--if, indeed, you be a son of Mother Church at all." "Sangue di Cristo!" spluttered the enraged bully, his face mottled.
"This to me?
Come down from that horse." He laid hold of Francesco's leg to drag him to the ground, but the Count wrenched it free by a quick motion that left a gash from his spur upon the captain's hands.

Simultaneously he raised his whip, and would have laid the lash of it across the broad of Fortemani's back--for it had angered him beyond words to have a ruffian of this fellow's quality seeking to ruffle it with him--but at that moment a female voice, stern and imperative, bade them hold in their quarrel.
Fortemani fell back nursing his lacerated hand and muttering curses, whilst Francesco turned in the direction whence that voice had come.
Midway on the flight of stone steps he beheld Valentina, followed by Gonzaga, Peppe, and a couple of men-at-arms, descending from the battlements.
Calm and queenly she stood, dressed in a camorra of grey velvet with black sleeves, which excellently set off her handsome height.

Gonzaga was leaning forward, speaking into her ear, and for all that his voice was subdued, some of his words travelled down to Francesco on the still, morning air.
"Was I not wise, Madonna, in that I hesitated to admit him?
You see what manner of man he is." The blood flamed in Francesco's cheeks, nor did it soften his chagrin to note the look which Valentina flashed down at him.
Instantly he leapt to the ground, and flinging his reins to Lanciotto he went forward to the foot of that stone staircase, his broad hat slung back upon his shoulders, to meet that descending company.
"Is this seemly, sir ?" she questioned angrily.

"Does it become you to brawl with my garrison the moment you are admitted ?" The blood rose higher in Francesco's face, and now suffused his temples and reached his hair.